181XIV
PILGRIMS
Another June.
Along the northern shore of the St. Lawrence Gulf, through the cold, gray light of early dawn, a yacht was steaming eastward.
Leaning against the rail, near the bow, a woman with eager eyes watched the elusive coast. But this coast, in the spreading light, was rapidly revealing itself, becoming less ethereal, more savage and majestic. The woman was daintily attired. Every detail of her apparel, from the Parisian hat to the perfect-fitting shoes, while simple and designed expressly pour le voyage, was sumptuous in its simplicity. Although about thirty-five years of age, her round, rather wide face, graceful figure, and vivacious expression would have made deception 182easy if she cared to practise it. In feelings, in manner, and in appearance, she was eighteen. And she would never be older. A peculiar droop at the outer corners of two large and very dark eyes, and a mouth–too small for the face–with a slight and rather infantile projection of the upper lip gave a plaintive, half-melancholy expression to an otherwise merry and youthful face.
Behind her, pacing to and fro, a strongly built, elderly man with heavy face and heavy hands, also watched the coast.
“Voila, Jacques!” and the lady pointed to a promontory in front, just revealed by the vanishing mist. “Le voila, n’est-ce pas?”
The man stepped forward and stood beside her. After a careful scrutiny he replied, also in French:
“Truly, I think it is.”
“Ah, le bonheur! At last! And how soon shall we land?”
He hesitated, stroking the end of his nose with a stubby finger. “In less than two hours.”